Chapter Text
December 2008
Battle of the bands.
Shane always thought that title to be a bit overselling it.
"So if it's a battle," Shane began to ask, holding a small plastic bin in his lap. It was filled with black cords and wires— important junk to get the instruments working, he figured. "What does first place win?"
His friend, Jason Murray, stood across from him, cradling a microphone stand as if it were a toddler. He huffed before placing it down on the concrete.
"Well— It's not really a battle, there's no prize, per se, it's more like uh..."
He grabbed another microphone stand from the trunk of the van and set it down in front of him. Shane patiently waited. After a moment of thinking he had an answer, finally.
"A showcase? Yeah! A showcase. It's mostly for like, promo and crap, y'know? Show off your skiiiiills."
After closing the trunk, Jason made a rock-n-roll hand to further accentuate his point.
After an awkward chuckle, Shane looked down. "Right. Oh-kay. That makes sense."
Satisfied with himself, Jason used his two hands to pick up the microphone stands once again, this time hauling them to the open side door. It must lead to backstage, Shane thought.
Before Jason could step inside, Shane called after him.
"Hey! What do I do with this stuff?"
Jason turned. "Oh, just, bring it in here, I'll show you where to dump—"
"I can't go in that way, Jace."
"Why?"
Shane made his way over to the side entrance. In front of it were three small concrete steps. Small, unimportant, not-even-noticeable steps, and yet, a large and annoying obstacle for Shane Hollander.
"There's no ramp, I–" He mumbled, hoping Jason would get what he was trying to point out without having to say it out loud. He already hated having to use the chair outside. Despite it being nearly 5 years since the accident, he wasn't used to it. It didn't feel like second nature yet. Would it ever? He didn't want it to. Then it would be like accepting his situation.
Shane hated being in a wheelchair. He hated stairs. He hated steps. He hated sitting in it, in front of stuff like that, like a complete idiot, staring at what was in his way. Might as well carry a huge neon sign that says: I CANT FUCKING WALK! PLEASE PITY ME!
He didn't know when he started to breathe a bit heavier, he didn't know how much of his depression and anger-fueled inner rant he'd said out loud, but Jason was able to figure out where his train of thought was headed, and did his best to get Shane to snap out of it.
He set the stands down at the door, quickly walking over to Shane and kneeling in front of him to be at eye-level.
"Shane." He said, calmly. "Shane, buddy. You're okay. You're not stuck in this thing forever, remember?"
Shane looked at him, his brown eyes glossy and perpetually soft.
"You gotta say it out loud, man." Jason spoke again. "Ground yourself."
Nodding slowly, Shane repeated Jason's words.
"I'm not stuck in this forever."
Jason smiled, revealing the single dimple he had in his left cheek. Shane's gaze darted to it, trailing up to the handful of freckles under his eye and on the bridge of his nose, the acne scars on his other cheek and jaw, the cuddly-looking softness of his barely visible jawline. When did Jason get so close to Shane's face? How long had he been staring?
Shane felt an embarrassing warmth rise in his face. Darting backwards, he looked away, eyes locked on the ground. "I'm okay now, I'm... I'm sorry."
Jason repressed a sigh, his smile fading from one of relief to one of slight pity. They had been friends for a while now, and though Jason was no Einstein, he noticed very quickly how 'anti-touch' Shane was. He noticed a lot of things about Shane.
He had his stuff going on. Everyone does, but Shane has extra. Jason, along with all of Shane's other friends, learned to be extra careful with him, but Jason suspected he was the only one that didn't see it as a chore. An extra note to keep in mind, more like. All Shane wanted was to feel like he was still normal. The sense of "otherness" would never go away of course, no matter how hard Jason could try— but he wanted to try regardless. Shane was his friend. A good one, at that. And friends help each other out.
So that's why, despite protest from his bandmates, Jason invited him to cheer them on in the '3rd Annual Battle of the Bands: Montreal' and to help with setting up equipment.
At first, Shane politely refused, worrying about slowing everyone down, but Jason insisted that they needed "All hands on deck!" to help.
"And plus," Jason told Shane on the drive there, "This should keep your mind off Jessica, right? Some bro time! Bros before hoes, right fellas?!" The van, filled with bandmates, roared in agreement.
Shane held the container tighter in his hands, as if the slightest breeze could carry it away. The rest of the guys were already inside, tuning the guitars, setting up the drum-set, messing with the amps and speakers and whatever— all the "hard stuff." All Shane had to do was take this bin inside. And if he couldn't even do that, what could he do?
Jason scratched his head, clicking with his tongue before speaking.
"The front door has a ramp, I think. You can just leave the box on the edge of the stage and then wait around or something while we finish everything, might be uh..." He checked the time on his Nokia. "...about a half hour until it starts. Less than that is when people will start comin' in. That cool?"
Shane took in a breath of fresh air, nodding and throwing a thumbs-up for good measure.
Jason seemed pleased, giving him another quick smile before jogging inside.
Shane spun, about to go forward towards the front before stopping to appreciate the sky. The sun was setting now, glowing across the ether in hues of pink, orange, and blue. Maybe, he thought, a good omen.
Like Jason said, there was a wheelchair ramp at the front entrance, allowing Shane to make his way through.
Inside the main area was pretty much how Shane expected it to look. The raw brick walls gave the place an edgy, industrial feel, and the posters and lights added to its strong ambience. The space was large enough for quite a bit of people to fit and still have room to rock out, with the stage being right at the far end of the area. At last, Shane could be rid of this cursed box of wires.
He wheeled over to the stage, taking in the coolness of the place. Admittedly it was a bit intimidating, especially because this "crowd" was not his "crowd", as Shane was classically trained, being a violin and piano player, but most of the people Shane met who were into this stuff were welcoming and friendly. Most of them.
Setting the bin down on the stage, Shane felt a wave of relief. Now, he actually felt useful.
Just as he spotted a vending machine, the stage door burst open, sending a bit of a frightening jolt through Shane's chest. His head jerked to the source of the noise, and his eyes fell upon quite a sight.
A young man, no older than Shane probably, had just come in, who— despite opening the door pretty aggressively— seemed to be having a pleasant phone call, before hanging up. Without even glancing at Shane, he put the phone in his pocket and sat on the stage, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it before placing it in his mouth.
Shane felt extremely underdressed next to this guy. Jason and the band always dressed quite alternatively, but this guy? This guy was the real deal. Like, totally punk rock.
His wrists were adorned with an assortment of bracelets and cuffs, all of which could possibly be used as a weapon. Shane felt poked just looking at them. His flared jeans looked like they'd seen better days, torn and distressed, but he somehow made it stylish. The grey t-shirt that tightly hugged his body was riddled with holes, revealing a black mesh top underneath.
His wrists weren't the only thing with metal on them. Silver rings were pierced both on the high arch of his left brow and on the right side of his lower lip, drawing attention to the strong cupids bow of his mouth.
The beauty of his blue eyes was intensified with the smudged, smoky black eyeliner and eyeshadow that made them twinkle even brighter under the ambient light.
But the craziest thing about him, no doubt, was his spiky, gelled up, electric-blue hair.
Shane blinked. His stomach hurt, in a funny way, and he found himself looking for an excuse to talk to him, despite not exactly being a people person.
"Hey, uh. I don't think you're allowed to smoke in here." Shane warned, half-seriously. He wasn't even completely sure of that, in fact, he was certain if anyone else was in the main room with them, they'd either not care or ask to have one.
Ilya snapped out of his thoughts, looking up from the floor to see a boy sitting in front of him. He had been zoning out again, and English, the stupid language it was, was already not so easy to understand with his undivided attention.
The boy being so disgustingly attractive didn't help.
"Oh," Ilya hummed, shrugging. His gaze flicked to the other boys lips for a moment.
Shane continued. "It's- you know. It's bad for you."
"Yeah. No shit."
The other boy let out a huff of a laugh, putting his hand on his neck. Of course punk smoker guy knows its bad, everyone knows its bad.
Shane bit the inside of his cheek, returning his hand to his lap and tapping his leg with a finger, getting a bit antsy now. How much longer until the thing starts?
"Are you in line-up?"
The sudden noise of punk guy's deep and smoky voice nearly made Shane jump out of his chair. After hearing him speak a full sentence, he could hear a Russian accent, thick as fog.
"In the line-up?" Shane repeated. "No!" he scoffed. "No, no, no... not me, no." Yes, Shane. Saying 'no' twenty times oughta do it.
"Ah, okay." he said. "I am."
"That's very cool."
"We go last."
Shane smiled. "My friends go first. I'm here for moral support."
Ilya tilted his head at that. Moral support. It took a second longer to register than normal, but he understood and hummed a generic noise in response.
"Yeah. I-I'm Shane, by the way. Hollander."
Shane Hollander, Ilya thought. Shane.
He regarded Shane for a second. Short, charcoal-black hair. His eyes, big and brown, like a lost puppy. A picture perfect face. Ilya focused closer. Across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose, a sea of freckles scattered, like they where carefully drawn, placed with a purpose. He had to look away. Or he would've gone crazy.
"Ilya Rozanov."
"Oh, cool. Cool. You're like, from Russia, yeah?"
Ilya laughed for the first time today.
"What gave you that idea?"
Shane furrowed his brow. "Well, y–" He stopped. That was a joke. He's joking.
"You need loosening up, Hollander." Ilya stated, like a diagnosis. "Less boring would be good."
Shane didn't know what to say. Ilya hopped off the stage, taking one last drag from his cigarette before starting to leave.
He was tall, maybe an inch or two taller than Shane standing up. He filed that knowledge away for later.
Ilya had reached the stage door he entered from before stopping in his tracks, turning on his heel to face Shane again.
"You are moral support, yes?"
Shane slowly nodded, maintaining eye contact.
Ilya appeared to lean on air, exuding even more confidence than before. A cocky smile crept on his lips. Something about his gaze, his stare, was so painfully intense that Shane felt the urge to zip up his sweater. He worried it would magically rip itself off of his body.
"That's good." Ilya replied. "Your friends will need that, after I win."
"Wow," Shane somehow managed to say. "You talk a big game for a contest with no prize."
Rozanov put the cigarette back in his mouth.
"There is always prize. Later, Hollander."
He left, in opposite fashion to how he entered, leaving the air dead around Shane. He wondered what Ilya meant. "There's always a prize." Maybe? Some notoriety, you could say. Bragging rights? A chance to just show off? Shane found himself playing with the zipper of his sweater, moving it up and down as he pondered. What Ilya said, the contest, his blue hair, his blue eyes, his strange ability to make Shane stumble over his words in his own head. The way he took his sweet time with each syllable in Shane's name. "Holl-and-der."
"What even?—" Shane asked the empty room.
Maybe there really was a prize. Shane found himself suddenly invested. Whatever it was, Ilya Rozanov seemed determined to win it.